Only Found Out Yesterday
by Madam Pudifoot
Summary: Jack's parents have an argument, and come to discover things they didn't know about each other. Written in honor of Mother's Day.


Characters: Teague and Sala (Mama Sparrow)

Disclaimer: It's a little depressing to know that a mouse owns more than I do, but alas, it is true. It ain't mine, I'm just playing in someone else's universe.

AN: I seriously debated about whether or not this should see the light of day, but I figured I have nothing to lose. Besides, it's Mother's Day!

"**Only Found Out Yesterday"**

"No, needs a little more… color. Some more sound – more vibrant, softer too."

The strings dance lazily under calloused fingers – a well practiced duet – and yet there's something not quite right about it. Teague thinks that he's surely forgotten a step, fallen out of time, perhaps.

"No, that's still not it."

"Oi, 'bout Thomas?" Todd sighs, puffing a cloud of smoke as he examines the intricate carvings of a worn pipe.

"Tommy Teague? Hardly." Teague laughs, sinking deeper into his chair. He enjoys these nights – officer meetings – although there's far more socializing than business, the majority of the time. It's always a comfort to have his best mates at hand; pipe, bottle, and guitar passed around at leisure.

"I still say Edward. Edward Teague – that's fierce and piratey, innit?"

"Whatever you say, Pete." The chords wail in discord, and Teague flinches at the sound. Things aren't going nearly as well as he'd hoped.

"Give it a rest, Maestro!" They all laugh at that, even Teague – there's time yet to get things right.

"You're never going to guess his name," a voice says, interrupting the laughter. All three heads turn to meet the intruder.

"Ah, Mrs. Captain," Pete greets, raising the rum bottle in acknowledgment. "Suppose we'll just be leaving you, then." He then rose, wobbling, to his feet, and promptly stumbled out of the Great Cabin. Todd followed, doffing an imaginary hat as he went, leaving Teague alone with his wife.

Sala groaned, easing herself down into a chair. "I'm so ready for this to be over," she sighs, massaging her back gingerly.

He can't exactly say that he shares her sentiments, and so he resumes his previous ministrations, pretending to be oblivious to the glare that is currently directed at him.

"Do you even care?"

The melodic plucking stops, as black eyes meet silver. A frustrated growl emanates from deep within his chest, as she strides towards him. Was there no peace to be found on this blessed ship?

"I care about quite a lot of things. Why don't you specify just which concern is in question, darling?" Teague can feel angry sparks flecking across his cheeks, radiating from the inferno looming before him.

"You know _exactly_ what I'm talking about," Sala grinds out, knuckles turning white at her side. Teague instinctively leans back, hoping to avoid her wrath.

"I do?" he murmurs, sliding out of his seat, grimacing he brushes against her in passing.

"For having no secrets on a ship, you're doing a fine job of keeping things from me."

"Dunno what you're on about, woman."

"All you've been doing for months is sulking around, with that bloody… _thing_." She gestures wildly to his side, where his guitar rested, at his hip.

"She isn't a thing." His fingers stroke the fretboard lovingly, reassuring Lady that she was far more important than his wife gave her credit for. Lady purred for him in response, singing a doleful tune at the pesky woman's ignorance. "And secondly, I haven't been sulking."

Sala scoffs loudly, rolling her eyes as she stalks after him, waddling rather noticeably. "Of course not. You've only been avoiding everyone, hiding in your corner, completely oblivious to everything. Why should I think you've been sulking?" she huffs, pushing her way past him as they enter the bed chamber.

"It's a mystery to me, to be certain." He slowly nestles his guitar against the bulkhead, calculating what would be the best way to go about diffusing her temper.

"You're going to leave me." The statement takes several minuets to register, leaving him utterly speechless once they finally drift through the fog lingering in his mind.

"I never said that," is the only comforting thing he can think to say.

"You don't have to," she whines, voice straining to contain a wail. "Just look at me!"

His eyes rove across her face; caramel skin now the color of brick, face comically scrunched up, tears leaking down rosy cheeks. Her red-brown hair is thicker than before, a knotted mess at the base of her neck. He has no room for her complaint, on account of her breasts, which heave with each staggered breath. Her stomach has swollen to thrice it's normal size, and the sight of it alone makes his gut twist in anxiety.

"Well, you are… pregnant," he slurs, hands fluttering vaguely, trying to fill the void his words always seem to leave behind.

It did nothing to alleviate her worries. The sobbing intensified, leaving her shaking, clutching her arms around her middle, desperately.

"Now, pet, hush. There's no need to – Oh, don't… Come here," he finishes lamely, enveloping her in an awkward hug, trying to maneuver around her overlarge belly.

"I knew you didn't want a baby – I didn't think you'd hate me for it."

"I never said that, either," he whispers, burying his face into her hair. "You're putting words in my mouth, what I never had any intention of saying. It's not fair, love."

"Just tell me the truth," Sala sniffles, turning to face him. "What do you think?"

The truth.

He wasn't even sure that he knew the truth, anymore. He'd always sworn that there wasn't room enough in his heart for a child, but the past few months had helped to test that theory.

At times, the thought shakes him to the core, filling him with an irrational fear of something he can't even name. Some nights he'd wake drenched in a cold sweat, panic-stricken, confused as to what was real and what was simply the result of his muddled mind. The acrid stretch of blood and death, far too real for his liking. It's times like that, when he wants nothing more than to drag his wife off and be rid of the child; be rid of the risks, of the responsibility – the chain.

Other times the knowledge fills him with an inexpressible joy – foreign, and all-consuming. His dreams are filled with dark-haired, silver-eyed children, laughing as they race across the deck, full of life and innocence. He wants to bring those smiles to their faces – wants to see them grow up and grow old. Wants to die knowing that he's done something right with his life.

He much prefers these dreams. They make him want to weave the warmth of the sun, the texture of the sand, and the passion of the sea - dotted with the magic of the night sky - into one mold. Wants to tell of laughter and light, love and music. But how can one explain what it means to be alive, to someone who's never lived? Who knows nothing outside the safety of a mother's womb, and the comfort of a beating heart. It was that very problem that had plagued him for so many months, and would likely continue to defy him, until there was no time left.

She wants the truth, but it's as much an enigma to him as it is to her. He can't give her the truth. Not the one she's seeking.

"I haven't been sulking, you know. I've been working. On a song."

His reply is met with silence, but he notes that her tears have subsided, at the least. Finally, she sighs, tugging at a stray lock of his hair, twining it between her fingers. "It must be good, if you're being so secretive about it. Can I hear it?"

"No. It's not finished yet. I want to get it right before I share it."

"It's been months. You must be nearly done."

He pauses, taking a deep breath – willing himself to give her his faith. "I still have two more months. I want it to be perfect. For that one," he nods, gesturing towards her midsection. Silence descends upon him once again, leaving him nervous, certain that she'll call him a fool for such silly trifles.

Her shoulders shake again, and he feels his face flush at her reaction. He pries her away from him, mind already lost to a sympathetic bottle, and enough opium to dull the fury dwelling in his chest.

He's surprised to find that tears had resumed their previous course, dripping off her chin and nose. Her eyes are clouded over with an emotion that he can't quite place. The anger drains from him, and he suddenly feels twice the fool for losing his temper.

"Oh," Sala hiccups, "You've really been writing a song for the baby?"

"Aye," he laughs, "It's hardly as worthy as gold and myrrh, but it'll have to make do. Thinking of calling it, 'Only Found Out Yesterday.' Been working on it since you told me, after all. Just having some trouble sorting it all out."

"Oh, Teague. I didn't know – I'm sorry." Her head falls against his shoulder again, moisture pooling over it once more.

"No, no worries. Just don't tell anyone that ol' Teague's gone soft. It'd be the end of me," he chuckles, rubbing her back.

"Is that what you were up to, with the crew? Writing?"

"No."

"What, then?"

"Was just thinking – tossing around ideas, really. Names. Jonathan's a fine name – strong one. If you've a mind… If it's even a lad."

He feels far too young for his age – naive and bumbling, a doe-eyed fool once again. He feels her smile, rather than sees it – the bulkhead behind her shoulder is far more engrossing than those damnable silver eyes.

He flinches reflectively as she doubles over, a strangled sob escaping her. "I didn't think you cared," she gasps, smiling tearfully.

"Now pet, hush. You know I'm only having fun; never meant a word of it," he murmurs soothingly, voice softer than he thought it capable of. She doesn't seem to find his joke as amusing, because her pitch increases to a wail, and it takes all of his will not to clap his hands to his ears, to block out the dreadful sound.

"Here, love," he says, scooping her into his arms once more. Sala shakes against him, face buried in his shoulder, as the tempest overwhelms her.

Her lets her cry, content knowing that in only two more months, she'll be back in her right mind, and he'll never be burdened with such nonsense again. The tears cease sooner than he expected, although not soon enough to leave him completely dry.

Her chin rests heavily against him, and the cabin is still, save for the swift kick at his side.

He can't stop the laughter from escaping, breaking the peaceful silence, like gunshot. "I deserved that." Her laughter joins his, choked and weak – her energy has been drained long since the child's quickening.

Humor seems the only escape from less pleasant thoughts – fears that he has no need to dwell on, now. "I've been told I have a personality like the plague - Should be avoided at all costs." She snorts, burying her face against him once more, and he breathes a little easier, knowing that he can still make her laugh.

"So, what say you?"

"Jonathan Teague?" she breaths, fingers idly twisting at a lock of coarse hair.

The child shifts again, and he finds his hand instinctively reaching to greet the movement – the contact brings a mix of comfort and anxiety to wrestle in his gut.

"I think it's a wonderful name," Sala sighs happily against his chest, one hand settling to rest atop his. A simple gesture, but it makes him realize just how drastically his life has changed since he met her.

"You know something?" she whispers.

"Hmm?"

"I love you."

"I know."


End file.
